


and possibly i like the thrill

by witching



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Asexuality Spectrum, Casual Sex, Dirty Talk, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Massage, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Strap-Ons, Tenderness, Trans Male Character, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), blink and you miss it martim and jonmartin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25865332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: Tim can count on one hand the number of times Jon has asked him for a favor; every time has been because it was absolutely necessary, there were no other options, and Jon asked in the most awkward and roundabout way he could possibly manage, his face hot enough to fry an egg and his eyes glued to the floor and his hands fidgeting relentlessly.This is no different, really, but for the substance of the favor. It isn't every day that Tim is asked so politely to rail someone's brains out, and if he had thought about it hypothetically before it actually came up, he would have put the chances of it being Jon at approximately zero percent.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 19
Kudos: 262





	and possibly i like the thrill

_i like my body when it is with your_   
_body. It is so quite new a thing._   
_Muscles better and nerves more._   
_i like your body. i like what it does,_   
_i like its hows. i like to feel the spine_   
_of your body and its bones,and the trembling_   
_-firm-smooth ness and which i will_   
_again and again and again_   
_kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,_   
_i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz_   
_of your electric fur,and what-is-it comes_   
_over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,_

_and possibly i like the thrill_

_of under me you so quite new_

// e.e. cummings

* * *

Jon has always been rather a self-sufficient sort, at least as long as Tim has known him — he delegates tasks in his capacity as head archivist, of course, but when it comes to more personal matters, he's hesitant to ask for help, to say the least. Tim can count on one hand the number of times Jon has asked him for a favor; every time has been because it was absolutely necessary, there were no other options, and Jon asked in the most awkward and roundabout way he could possibly manage, his face hot enough to fry an egg and his eyes glued to the floor and his hands fidgeting relentlessly. 

This is no different, really, but for the substance of the favor. It isn't every day that Tim is asked so politely to rail someone's brains out, and if he had thought about it hypothetically before it actually came up, he would have put the chances of it being _Jon_ at approximately zero percent.

The way that Jon goes about it is so – Tim is hesitant to call it cute, not because it isn't true, but because it isn't _enough._ It isn't just cute; it's so disgustingly, painfully adorable that Tim nearly loses the thread of what Jon is asking him. Nearly, but not entirely, because it would be fucking impossible not to pay attention to Jon's molten voice saying so many delicious words that Tim didn't even expect Jon to _know,_ much less speak aloud.

When he broaches the topic, they're at work. Jon calls Tim into his office apropos of nothing, his voice strained and cracking slightly on Tim's name, more affected than Tim has ever heard him before. He comes over and leans against the door frame, sees Jon sitting there looking small and nervous and rather like he wants to crawl under the desk.

Admittedly, Tim likes the idea of Jon under a desk, but only in a very specific circumstance which is far from the current context and unlikely to ever occur outside of Tim’s fantasies. He shakes the thought away, focusing on the present. "What can I do for you, boss?" he asks with the same half-forced cheer he always uses, hooking his thumbs into his pockets and smiling brightly.

Jon swallows hard, his eyes fixed solidly on a spot on the floor in front of where Tim is standing. "I was hoping that we could… talk. It is not work-related, and it may be somewhat… sensitive, so you are by no means obligated to have this discussion."

"What discussion’s that, then?" Tim asks, a hint of a teasing note in his voice to counteract the obvious tension in Jon’s posture, face, voice, even the very air around him. Jon clears his throat but doesn't look up at Tim's face, nor give any indication that he plans to actually answer the question, so Tim furrows his brow and sobers considerably before adding, "Is everything alright, Jon? You're kind of starting to freak me out a little."

It seems as if this is a genuine surprise to Jon, like he was unaware of how nervous and cryptic he's being. "Sorry," he mutters half to himself. "Erm, would you like to – come in? Have a seat?"

“Sure, yeah.” Tim steps fully into the room and closes the door behind him, because he figures there's no way this is going to be a door-open kind of conversation.

That hypothesis is quickly confirmed when the _click_ of the latch closing finally makes Jon look up and give Tim a look of wide-eyed gratitude and a small sigh of relief. Tim makes his way over to the chair that sits opposite Jon at his desk, trying not to let his apprehension show in the movements of his body. He's smooth, he reminds himself, a corny little affirmation that often helps him keep his cool when he feels the nerves beginning to set in. 

Caught up in his mind as he is, Tim trips over the leg of the chair, stumbling a bit and nearly braining himself on the corner of Jon’s desk. _Smooth._ He straightens out his shirt before taking a seat, more theatrically than strictly necessary to cover for his embarrassment.

The embarrassment evaporates like sweat from his skin when he sees the look on Jon’s face. It isn’t much – a tilt of his head, a quirk of his brow, a fond, amused little smile – but it makes Tim feel like he's part of the joke, like they're sharing something.

As soon as he meets Jon’s eyes, though, they dart away from him, staring resolutely at the wood grain of the desk. All of Jon’s jittery uncertainty returns in full force, abruptly, the second he realizes Tim is watching him back. Tim sympathizes, he really does, but it's not as if he can conduct a proper conversation like this.

“Jon,” he says, soft and simple and soothing. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Jon screws his eyes shut so tightly that it practically gives Tim a headache just to look at him. His cheeks are flushed dark and gorgeous, his lower lip caught between his teeth looking agonizingly enticing, and he makes Tim wait a long, long time before inhaling sharply and answering him. “I wanted to know…” he starts, each syllable sounding as if it's ripped from him like velcro, “if you would be interested in… engaging in sexual intercourse… with me.”

“You what?” Tim asks with a bit of a yelp, choking on air.

“You don’t have to, of course,” Jon mumbles hastily, nervously, still refusing to look at him.

Tim nearly laughs aloud at that, at the very notion that he would ever not want to seize this opportunity with both hands. He's surprised, surely, but there's no question in his mind regarding his answer. “I know that,” he assures Jon with a fond quirk of his lips. “I was caught off guard, is all. Where’s this coming from?”

Jon licks his lips, seemingly unaware of how distracting that is, and sighs. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, this is – inappropriate. You can go.”

Before he can even think hard enough to consciously choose to open his mouth, Tim is asking, “Do I have to?” Jon only grits his teeth, hard enough that Tim can both see and hear it, but doesn’t say anything, so Tim continues talking to fill the silence. “Because, I mean, I don’t particularly want to leave. And I don’t mind inappropriate. In fact, I love inappropriate. You should know this about me.”

“I do,” Jon replies with a reflexive eye roll. “That doesn’t mean it’s okay for me to – to – to… _solicit_ you like this.”

“Sure,” Tim says thoughtfully, “but given that you already _have_ solicited me, don’t you at least want to hear my answer?”

“If you insist,” Jon groans, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Tim smiles, leans forward across the desk to place a hand on Jon’s wrist as gently as he can physically manage; Jon still jumps at the touch, but quickly relaxes and allows Tim to pull his hands away from his face. Maybe it's selfish, maybe it's a bit cruel, but Tim feels that it's absolutely necessary to see Jon’s face for this.

He lets the silence hang heavy in the air for a few seconds, looking long and deep into Jon’s wide, dark eyes. “If you want me,” he murmurs eventually, each merciful word falling from his tongue like a gift, “then you’ve got me.”

Jon’s mouth hangs open, all the breath leaving him with an audible huff, followed by a nearly inaudible “Oh.” 

His fingers still resting on Jon’s wrist, Tim tightens his grip in a way that he hopes comes across as reassuring. Or at least friendly, non-threatening. “I just want you to know that you’re not, like, beseeching an unwilling employee for a pity fuck,” he says, trying to keep his tone as casual as possible. “I’m your friend, and I’m… you know. Willing. So if you’re acting all bashful for my sake, you don’t have to.”

“You mean it?” Jon’s voice is so small and uncertain that for a moment, Tim almost does pity him.

“Course I do,” he answers with an easy grin, ignoring the way his heartbeat stutters at the raw vulnerability on Jon's face. “Is that something you seriously want? I think we’d have to talk about it a bit.”

“Erm. Yes, it is.”

 _Breathe,_ Tim reminds himself internally, _you're smooth._ But it's hard to be smooth when he's experiencing something so surreal, when he's so endeared that it makes his chest feel tight. “Alright. What brought this on?”

“I’ve just been… curious, I suppose?” Jon says, a hint of a breathy squeak in his tone. “I’ve been wondering about. Some things.”

Oh, fuck. _Curious_ always means something kinky, and Tim isn't sure he can handle that coming from Jon, not now or ever. “Care to tell me what things, precisely?”

“Well, I’ve. I’ve had… I’ve done it before, a few times. I’ve given and received oral sex, and I’ve been – hm," Jon cuts himself off, evidently deciding that it's unnecessary to say what he's _been._ Tim aches to hear it, to know everything about him, everything he'd ever done, and to do it all over again with him. "Anyway, the point is, I want – that is, I was hoping you would maybe… help me explore some avenues I’ve not yet experienced.”

Or that. New things; that's good, too. “Such as?”

Jon lets out a small sigh, a frustrated huff of a breath. “Are you going to make me say it?”

His face is pained, brows pinched together and lips pressed into a thin line, eyes dark and brimming with nervous energy. Tim has to fight back the urge to lean across the desk and kiss him – it would be so easy, far easier than having this conversation, and he's wanted it for so long, but… but. They have to talk it out before they do anything rash. Tim knows this, but that doesn't mean he has to be happy about it.

“I really wouldn’t," he says sympathetically, "if I had any idea what you were actually getting at.”

“I want you to – ah, to – to…” Jon pauses, wringing his hands in a manner that makes Tim think he'll rub or scratch his skin raw. He focuses on Jon’s hands, thinking about grabbing them to stop him from hurting himself, until Jon finally says, “I would like to be on the receiving end of… penetrative sex.”

Tim’s eyes snap up to Jon’s face, wide with shock and intrigue. “Oh. _Oh._ Why didn’t you just say so?”

The roll of Jon’s eyes is comfortingly familiar, makes it feel like any other conversation. “It’s not quite as easy for everyone as it is for you, Tim.”

“Right, well. I’m glad you asked,” Tim assures him, eyes fixed on Jon’s cheeks darkening with a deep flush. He thinks of reaching out and touching him, brushing his fingers against Jon’s heated skin; he wants it fiercely, suddenly, but he tamps down that urge in favor of getting the important parts of this conversation out of the way. “Real quick, I want to be sure you know that my genders are like, all the way transed. Just want to make sure that's not going to put a damper on your plans.”

“No, of course it's not a problem,” Jon murmurs, closing his eyes with a small sigh of amused exasperation. “Actually, for what it's worth, I'm not — I mean, I do have — but I don't consider myself to be entirely. Aligned with the societal implications of what _gender_ really is, or what it means, I suppose, if you believe it means anything at all, that is. My point is that I don't think I'm strictly... _not_ transed, to use your terminology."

"Really?" Tim beams brightly, staring in wide-eyed wonder. "That's brilliant, Jon. If you ever want to talk about it or anything, even if you'd prefer not to talk to me, I mean, I know people, and I'm happy to help if you ever need anything."

Jon smiles back at him, a wide and genuine thing, though still tentative. "Thank you, Tim. It's not really — for now, it's not a big deal, I'm not making any significant — changes. Just... I haven't really told anyone else, but I trust you, and I figured if we're going to be doing this... not that it'll really _affect_ anything, but I thought you ought to know."

Nodding his head, Tim tries to smooth his expression into something less like an excited schoolchild. "Thank you for telling me," he says earnestly, then waits for Jon to continue the conversation in the direction he would like to take it.

There's a long moment where Jon stops and takes a deep, steadying breath before he speaks. "As far as the actual issue at hand," he mumbles with a dismissive jerk of his head, "I want – well, I’m not a fan of… the fluids that come with sex, so an… instrument is preferable.”

“I’ve got… _instruments,”_ Tim replies, wrinkling his nose fondly at the terminology, “unless you’d rather use your own, but I don’t know if you own that kind of stuff, given that you don’t… you know, do it.”

Jon clears his throat, nods his head. “Erm, no, I wouldn’t, usually,” he says, quiet and slow, “except. I bought some, for the potential eventuality where you’d agree to help me.”

It takes a long moment for Tim to process the statement, to understand what Jon is really saying, and then it hits him, punching the breath from him instantly. It's unexpected and unbelievably hot, not to mention utterly endearing, the clear eagerness of it, the amount of care and attention Jon put into it.

It is very _Jon_ of him, a stark reminder of exactly why Tim has been infatuated with him for ages. “Wow,” he croaks in a rough whisper, ”you’ve really thought about this, huh? Gone and picked out the exact toy you want me to fuck you with?”

Jon blushes furiously, glancing away from Tim’s rakish grin. “Really, Tim.”

“What?” Tim asks, throwing his hands up in mock innocence. “You _did,_ I only said it.”

“Fine,” Jon sighs, “but must you be so… blunt?”

“One of us should be,” mutters Tim and then, seeing the look on Jon’s face, he huffs out a soft, fond breath of a laugh. “Christ, Jon, are you going to be this uptight in bed? You want to gag me so I can’t say any naughty words while I’m –”

“Thank you, Tim,” Jon says, raising his voice to cut him off, “that will be all for now. Get back to work.”

“Righto, boss,” Tim declares with a mock salute. He rises from his chair and makes his way to the door before turning around, winking ostentatiously, and chirping a bright, “Call me.”

He can't be sure, but Tim thinks he catches the barest glimpse of a smile on Jon's face right before he closes the door. It makes him smile, too, even as his stomach does a few dozen flips at the sight of it.

It's four harrowing, excruciating, neverending days before Jon approaches Tim again. They're just about to leave – Tim is, at least, and Jon should be wrapping up, but he rarely leaves on time. So it is a bit of a surprise when he comes out of his office and walks right over to Tim, no pretense and no wasted time. He wears a deep frown, holds his arms stiffly at his sides, and looks intently at the floor while Tim stands there and waits for him to say something.

Jon takes several deep breaths and glances around to be sure that nobody will hear him, then mutters from the side of his mouth, “Are you… busy. Tonight.”

Tim’s breath catches in his throat. “Tonight?” he asks incredulously. “No, I’m not busy. Not busy at all. My evening is… wide open.”

“Is that an innuendo?” Jon says, his voice all tight and strained. “Are you messing with me?”

“Not at all,” Tim replies breezily, “but I sure would like to. Your place?”

Jon breathes a sigh, tension visibly melting from his posture. “Yes. My place is perfect. Thank you.”

Nodding to himself, Tim feels a rush of triumph before reigning it in, reminding himself that nothing has happened yet. It could still go horribly wrong. Not that Tim is inclined to think it will, but he prefers to be prepared for any eventuality, especially in a situation like this, where he's somewhat in his element but still walking on eggshells because it's _Jon,_ and _that_ is very much not the norm.

There's definitely going to be a conversation when they get back to Jon's place, and Tim finds himself mentally preparing for it the whole way there — a short tube ride and a five minute walk, not too far at all, but it feels like ages with all the excitement and anxiety and anticipation running through his head. He rehearses a few lines, all of which are truly awful, but it's not like Jon would mind much if he said something cheesy, as long as he's understanding and honest, and he intends to be.

In all the time Tim and Jon have known each other, Jon has never given any indication that he had any interest in sex in a practical or theoretical sense. They've talked about it exactly once, and Jon was kind and polite but he made it clear that he didn't want to discuss the subject, so Tim dropped it immediately. And they haven't talked about it since then. They talk dates sometimes — exes and prospects and duds and everything in between — but not sex, because it makes Jon uncomfortable, and Tim doesn't enjoy making people uncomfortable.

Anyway. He's overthinking it, he knows, but acknowledging that doesn't make it stop, so he keeps overthinking it until the sound of Jon's front door latch clicking shut jars him out of his thoughts. Tim could swear that it echoes, but then, he's always had a colorful imagination.

Jon sets to making tea as soon as he walks through the door, toeing off his shoes in the middle of the hall and leaving Tim to follow his lead. He doesn't say anything, and Tim follows his lead in that, as well. Watches him put a kettle on, but tries not to watch him too hard, tries not to make him feel too self conscious about having an audience. At least Jon is secure in the knowledge that Tim likes the way he makes tea. Tim is the only person in the world who likes the way Jon makes tea.

Standing in Jon's kitchen in his socks, Tim casts his eyes around to take it in. He's never seen Jon's flat before, somehow, despite knowing him for the better part of two years. It's very much like what he would have expected. What he did expect, because he has thought about it before at length, him with his active imagination and his strange fixation on Jon — not that he's obsessed or anything weird like that, it's just that Jon is such an enigma sometimes, and Tim just wants to figure him out in any way he can. The fact that Jon is letting him have this, not just the sex but the glimpse into his home and his life, is nothing short of a miracle in Tim's eyes.

"You want a cup?" Jon asks finally, his gruff voice cutting through the aching silence of the kitchen left in the wake of the kettle boiling.

Tim laughs. It's so Jon, to forget to ask a thing like that until he's well past the point of no return, to throw that bit of nicety in as an afterthought. Like he got all the way through making the tea before realizing there was even the slightest chance that Tim wouldn't actually want tea. 

"Yeah, I'll take," says Tim, smiling fondly at him, accepting the cup of tea that Jon is holding out for him.

Jon nods once, a decisive gesture, and wanders back out to the living room, perches on the edge of a couch cushion, looking for all the world as if he expects to have to make a break for it at any moment. Tim takes a seat on the other side of the couch, giving him a good two feet of breathing room. He crosses his legs and turns to face Jon fully, holding the cup of tea in both his hands.

"So, do you want to like, talk about this? What you're expecting, what you're — what you want from me? What you don't want?" Tim clears his throat nervously, stares down into his tea and fidgets with his interlaced fingers. "I just want you to be totally comfortable in this, you know? And you... don't seem very comfortable at all," he finishes lamely, indicating Jon's wooden posture with a jerk of his head.

"Yes, I think we'd better get a few things straight," Jon agrees, cheating his body at an angle to face Tim better. His shoulders relax just slightly, but enough that Tim notes it with relief as Jon continues talking. "We had a bit of a discussion before, of course, but it's important to be entirely clear on these things, in my experience."

Tim gives him a slow nod, furrowing his brow and frowning deeply. "Are you alright, Jon? You know we don't have to do anything you don't want to do. I'm only here because you asked, and I only want to give you what you need."

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. Jon tenses up, inhales a sharp breath through his teeth. "I don't _need_ anything," he says, sounding — not angry, but closed off, guarded. Sharp around the edges. "I want — well, I told you what I want the other day, and you said you were okay with that."

"I was! I am," Tim corrects himself immediately. "But there are a lot of variables involved even when you know what... specific acts you want to perform. Like — I mean, do you want me to just ask you questions and you can tell me your comfort level with things?"

"I don't," Jon begins, then chokes on his tongue a bit. He takes a sip of his tea, swallowing it down with an indulgent sigh, and starts over with a marginally relaxed demeanor. "I don't know my comfort level with certain things," he says sheepishly, offering up an apologetic glance. "There's a lot I haven't done, and there's a lot I haven't even thought about, and there's just — there's a lot. It's all rather a lot, is what I'm saying."

"I know," Tim says, sympathetic and soft and understanding. "I'm here for you, alright? There's no wrong answers to any of this, as far as I'm concerned. If you want me to... fuck you," he winces at the phrasing, if only because he can feel Jon's discomfort from where he sits on the other end of the couch, "then I will, I can, any way you want it, I mean that. I really do."

Jon blows out a long breath through his nose, staring intently at Tim's hands where they wrap around the cup of tea, almost dwarfed by his long fingers and broad palms. "Okay," he mutters half to himself, as if getting himself psyched up for something, which he is, in a way. "Okay, okay. I think it might be good if you asked me questions. If you don't mind."

Shifting in his seat, Tim leans over to set his mug of tea on the coffee table, folds his hands in his lap and looks back up at Jon, who's already looking at his face as soon as the tea is out of the way. "I don't mind," Tim assures him, voice like crushed velvet. "We'll start with the easy questions, yeah? Work our way up to the messier stuff, if necessary."

He watches Jon's spine go rigid at the mention of the messier stuff, sees his eyes go wide, his fingers digging into his thighs hard enough that it has to be painful. "It's alright, Jon, you're alright," he tries to soothe him as best he can manage. He waits for Jon to relax slightly and give him a minute nod before continuing. "So, first things first — kissing?"

A deep sigh comes from Jon, his shoulders heaving with it, but when he inhales again, it's with a marginal amount of composure. Tim has a feeling that Jon had been expecting him to say something awful, and is relieved that he started with a low ball question, as promised. Still, Jon hesitates for a long moment, his brow wrinkled deeply as the gears turn in his head.

"Yes," he says eventually, nodding his head slowly. "Yes, I like that."

"Good," replies Tim, giving him a moment to gather himself before he moves on to another question. "I don't want to make any assumptions, so — specifically, kissing on the mouth? With tongue? How do you feel about that?"

"That's good," Jon answers. "Kissing — anywhere is fine, for kissing. Don't mind that at all."

Tim smiles at him, encouraging, pleased by how smoothly this is going. "Alright, cool. And are you — do you want to come?" he asks bluntly, unable to think of any better way to say it.

Luckily, Jon makes a little face, wrinkles his nose adorably at the vulgarity, but doesn't say anything to indicate that he's not okay with talking about it. "Yeah," he mutters at length, avoiding eye contact. "Yes, I would like that."

"Perfect," Tim smiles wider. "What's your comfort level regarding nudity?"

"All of it is fine," comes the reply, faster than Tim expected. Jon looks rather sheepish about it himself, embarrassed by his eagerness. "I just mean — I like... bodies," he says in a stilted voice, then cringes at his own wording and rushes to amend, "I appreciate the art of the human form, is what I'm trying to say. I'm not squeamish about nakedness."

It's difficult, but Tim manages to hold back a laugh at Jon's awkward fumbling. That would be entirely counterproductive, alienating Jon and making him feel judged, and that is not why Tim is here. "Right, okay," he mutters with a fond little shake of his head.

They go through a checklist of things that Tim considers potential options for the evening. He asks about fingers, oral, dirty talk, a few kinks that he thinks Jon might appreciate, based on what he knows about his personality and his proclivities in nonsexual situations. Jon asks a few questions of his own, just to even the playing field, to make sure that Tim is just as comfortable with everything he wants as Jon is with the things Tim wants.

It's easy, easier than Tim could have expected, to talk about these things with Jon. He's still a bit awkward, a bit repressed, but Jon speaks openly about his sexual experience, apparently entirely unaware of how crazy hot it is for Tim to listen to; Tim has wondered before, of course, about Jon's preferences, but he never thought he would have the opportunity to hear Jon explain it in such vivid detail. How he had come to realize that he wasn't all that interested in sex, how he had examined various aspects of it to work out the exact parameters of his tastes, how he had thought about this extensively, turned it over and over in his mind for weeks to decide if it would be a good idea.

"I wanted to be sure," he says with a sad sort of sympathy, "because I didn't want to make you — I didn't want to ask you to be an accessory to something that would be harmful to one or both of us."

"Thank you for that," Tim says, because what else can he say? He is grateful for Jon's consideration, truly and deeply, and anything beyond that would be superfluous. He could ask questions, but it isn't his place — or, it is, but he doesn't want those answers if Jon is only telling him because he asked, and he assumes that Jon will volunteer more information if he feels comfortable. Tim wants him to feel comfortable.

Apparently, that comes across as Tim intended it to, because Jon takes a deep breath and then continues, "I needed to think very hard about where this desire was coming from, you know? I was worried — in the past, I've had bad experiences with — trying things because I thought I should, or something like that, trying to convince myself that I wanted things I didn't want. But this isn't that. This is just... I wanted to know. I think it — obviously, I hear it feels good, not the same as just fingers, and I hear it's better with a partner, and I want to feel it. I want. I want it."

Tim nods, pursing his lips. He was pretty sure that Jon wasn't doing this for the wrong reasons, of course — he fancies himself fairly good at clocking those types of things — but it is nice to hear, nonetheless. Then Jon asks him another question, something about being dominant or submissive, and Tim gladly launches into a laundry list of things that he's into, and the conversation progresses smoothly from there.

When he runs out of things to ask, Tim sits back and claps his hands on his knees. "So. That's everything I've got, I think? I mean, it's definitely everything that's likely to come up tonight. And if anything else occurs to me while we're in the middle of it, I won't do anything without asking first."

Nodding his head, Jon smiles, a great deal more relaxed than he was at the start. "Good. Thank you. And I — obviously, I won't, either. I just... I think if there are sexual acts that you're not into, I probably haven't even _heard_ of them."

"That's probably true," Tim laughs. "Are you... do you want to go to the bedroom? Show me what I'm working with?" He sees Jon's eyes go wide again, his face paling slightly, and rushes to amend, "I mean the equipment, Jon. The — you said you had a harness and a toy picked out? I'm sure fit won't be an issue, but I'd like to — I don't know, acquaint myself with it."

"Oh," Jon breathes a sigh of relief, "okay."

"And after that, we can get into foreplay," Tim adds with a mischievous grin, standing from the couch and extending a hand to help Jon up. Jon accepts the hand, allows Tim to pull him to his feet, and then starts leading the way to the bedroom.

It's small, but not uncomfortably so, a queen-sized mattress and box spring shoved in the corner. No bedframe, but the linens are meticulously arranged, a bedskirt covering the box spring, sheets and pillowcases and comforter that are all visibly clean, almost like new. Beside the bed, there's a small nightstand, a lamp and an analog alarm clock and Jon's glasses — he wore contacts to work that day — laying out on top of it.

Taking in the room at large, Tim notes a wardrobe that looks too small to hold a week's worth of his own clothes, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that Jon doesn't really have such a varied sense of fashion. There's a closet, too, but even with the door closed Tim can tell it's small and probably mostly used to store books and board games, rather than clothing. Jon dresses well, Tim has always admired that about him, but he doesn't experiment a lot. He knows what he likes, and Tim admires that even more.

The sound of Jon clearing his throat brings Tim's attention away from his thoughts again. Jon is shuffling his feet, looking self conscious, and Tim just can't be doing with that, so he reaches out to grab Jon's hand, squeezes it once, reassuringly. 

"You have a really nice place," he says sincerely. "It's very cute. I like your style and everything. I mean — I've always liked your style, but I like — it's all neat, and it just seems like it's very you. It feels like a place where you're comfortable, and I like that. I like knowing that you have a place that makes you feel at home."

Jon's cheeks heat up and he presses his lips together tightly to suppress a pleased little smile. "I — thank you," he mumbles, unaccustomed to the level of praise he's receiving from Tim.

Tim has always been nice to him, in his teasing way, as long as they've been friends, but he usually isn't so earnest and forthcoming with compliments like this. It's almost certainly a function of wanting to make Jon feel comfortable with the situation, wanting to make sure he knows how thoroughly unjudged he is. It works, too: Tim watches his shoulders relax, his eyes soften.

"You want to show me the goods?" Tim asks, throwing in a cheeky little wink for good measure. 

Rather than dignifying it with a response, Jon simply turns and pulls a drawer open in his wardrobe, reaches inside and brings out a soft faux leather harness, not too complex or too strappy, for which Tim is immensely grateful. It's hard to be smooth in the bedroom when he's struggling to untwist the straps of a harness and get it fastened in place. Then Jon dips into the drawer again, pulls out a little pump bottle of lube and... a dildo. 

Obviously, Tim was expecting a dildo. He knew there would be a dildo. That's how this is supposed to work; it's a crucial part of the experience. Jon told him about it well in advance, not to mention that they discussed it just minutes ago. He knew a dildo was on the menu.

What he absolutely wasn't expecting, though, was how _big_ it is. He balks at it, imagining how hard he would have to work to get it inside his own ass — and he has taken toys up the ass before, many times, and he enjoys it, and sometimes they're even rather large, but this is. Well. It isn't monster sized, not like those dragon dildos that people get that are as thick as Tim's biceps, but it is definitely larger than any real cock Tim has ever seen in person. The only one that even comes close is Martin's, and somehow Tim feels like it's wrong for him to think about Martin's dick at this precise moment.

He's staring, he knows he's staring, his eyes wide and his lips parted in a mixture of awe and shock and just an insane level of arousal, his mouth gone all dry. He couldn't say anything if he tried, and he doesn't have the foggiest clue what he would even say. Is this normal for Jon? Is he aware of how big it is? Did he order it online and accidentally click the wrong size?

"It's — I know," Jon says, as if reading his mind — not too difficult, given how it's written all over his face. "I know. I did a lot of research, okay, and I'm sure this is what I want. I have others, if you'd rather not, but it is my preference. I just — I mean — I know that preparation can be a lot of work, and I don't want to cause you any undue stress or labor or anything like that, I just. I don't know, this is stupid, you don't have to —"

"Jon," Tim interrupts him, his hand shooting out to wrap fingers around Jon's wrist, stilling his hands and stopping him from fidgeting. "Jon, it's fine. More than fine. It would be my absolute pleasure to fuck you with this massive toy cock. I would be honored. I _am_ honored."

"You don't have to do all that," Jon protests, shaking his head and laughing softly at the ridiculousness of Tim's eager pleas. "I mean, if you're okay with it, then you're okay with it, but you don't have to be — I don't know, thrilled about it."

"I _am_ thrilled," Tim insists, catching Jon's eyes with an intense gaze. "Jonathan Sims, I am bloody thrilled to be here, and I am absolutely grateful that you chose me to do this with. I'm here because I'm your friend and I want to make you feel good, okay? It doesn't have to be a big deal."

Jon pauses, frozen for a long moment, and looks up at Tim's face with an open, wanting look in his wide eyes. "If you're sure," he says quietly. "I just. I know I wouldn't be your first choice of companion for a Friday evening, and I am thankful that you agreed to do this for me, I just don't want to make you feel like you have to — tend to me, or walk on eggshells or anything like that."

"Okay, Jon. I won't tend to you or fuss over you, if you promise not to sell yourself short and act like I'm doing this out of pity or some bullshit like that."

"Okay. It's a deal."

"Good. Now — this part is a bit of a struggle, and I would appreciate it if you didn't watch while I do it, much like I'm sure you would appreciate me not watching while you undress, so..." Tim offers up a sheepish smile, reaching with his free hand to take the harness and the toy from Jon, before continuing, "Why don't you do that, and I'll do this, and we can reconvene when we've come to terms with being observed."

A small bark of a laugh escapes Jon, but the grateful look that accompanies it is all the more telling. Jon smiles, nods, waits for Tim to release his wrist before turning around to strip in relative privacy. Tim turns his back as well, shucking his clothes with unceremonious efficiency and discarding them on the floor before grappling with the harness to fasten it around his thighs and waist — it's easier than he expected, even given that it looked rather easy. Once it's in place, he tugs at the straps to test the fit, and finally takes the toy in hand, turning it over in his palm, feeling out the weight of it and the shape of it and the fucking _size_ of it.

It isn't — it isn't crazy huge. It's just that Tim came into this with certain presumptions, certain preconceptions, and that included the idea that Jon would be... maybe not timid, but somewhat modest in a situation like this. He thought that Jon would want to ease into it, so to speak, but apparently he underestimated him, because he is really going for it. Tim is absolutely not about to complain about it. He decides to keep the toy set off to the side for now, because — the thought makes him laugh under his breath, but it would be a bit of a hindrance to have the thing swinging around while he's trying to prepare Jon.

His soft puff of a laugh is loud enough in the silent room to make Jon jump and gasp, and Tim spins around to find out what's wrong only to see Jon regaining his breath, a hand held to his chest in shock. They both smile apologetically at each other, roll their eyes at the dramatics of the moment, take a simultaneous step forward, and break into a mutual fit of laughter.

"Off to a great start," Jon remarks sardonically, looking up at Tim with a crooked grin before settling into a more sober expression. He cocks his head to the side, uses the angle to force Tim to catch his gaze. "What are you staring at?"

"Nothing, just... you're gorgeous," Tim answers with a dazed shake of his head, his eyes roving up and down Jon's body slowly. He swallows hard, clears his throat before adding, "Fuck, I can't wait to see you get hard for me."

"I'm — good _lord,_ Tim," Jon mutters, his face darkening with a deep flush.

Tim grins wide and bright, leans down slightly so that Jon can feel the full effect of his words when he whispers, "Breathtaking. Mouthwatering."

Fidgeting with his fingers, Jon averts his eyes and quickly changes the subject. "What do we do now?"

"Well," Tim murmurs as he takes another step closer, "I was thinking about kissing you. If you wouldn't mind, that is."

"I would certainly not mind," Jon answers with a decisive nod, which is abruptly cut short when Tim's hand lands on his cheek like snowfall, soft and unexpected and comfortable in one. He inhales a deep, shaky breath, lips trembling, and looks at Tim with wide, pleading eyes. "I think — I think I would like that very much."

A beat of silence, of stillness, and then Tim dips his head low, using his light hold on Jon's cheek to guide his face up, and presses his lips to Jon's as delicately as he possibly can. Jon makes a little noise and cranes his neck higher, moving into the touch, pushing against Tim's lips with enthusiasm. He brings his own hands tentatively to rest on Tim's shoulders, putting a bit of his weight into it and leaning up into the kiss until Tim has no choice but to groan against his mouth and grab his face tighter, cup his cheeks like he's afraid Jon is going to fly away.

With a sharp inhale through his nose, Jon accepts the touch, pushes into it even more. Tim takes the opportunity to run the tip of his tongue along the seam of Jon's lips, entreating him to open up and let him in, and Jon obliges without hesitation. Tim's tongue is clever and gentle, probing Jon's mouth in slow, sweeping motions, sliding against Jon's own tongue and pulling an eager whine from somewhere deep in Jon's chest. Jon scrapes his teeth gently along Tim's lower lip, hardly a touch, far from a bite, but enough to make Tim gasp and pull away.

Letting out a quiet sound of loss, Jon stands up on his toes to chase Tim's lips, opens his eyes slowly when he finds that he can't catch up to him. "You okay?" he asks, his voice small and unsure.

"Yeah," Tim reassures him, brushing his thumb over Jon's cheekbone soothingly. "Yeah, s'fine, just — d'you want to go to the bed?"

"Oh," Jon replies softly, blinking a few times. "Yes, I think — that sounds good, yes." 

Tim smiles, breathes a soft sigh that might contain the word _Good,_ and allows Jon to climb in bed first before doing the same. "You can lie down," he says in response to Jon's lost expression, "however you like."

Jon nods his head, his brow furrowed and an endearing frown gracing his lips. "Is it alright if I — on my stomach?" he asks, the words coming out stilted and tense. "I just don't... I think it would feel strange to watch you the whole time, and to — to be watched by you, as well. Is that alright? Is it weird? I'm sorry if I'm being weird, I don't really know what's — normal, I suppose? And I'm just a bit — _oh."_

He cuts off with a choked breath as Tim's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, rubbing circles into Jon's skin with his thumb. Tim takes the opportunity to give him a smile and bring his other hand up to mirror the touch, watching with satisfaction as Jon's posture relaxes slowly. "It's okay, Jon," he says, pacifying and sincere, "I mean it. Whatever you're comfortable with is perfect, because I want — well, no, I _need_ you to be comfortable with this."

"Alright," Jon breathes, nodding a bit dreamily when Tim squeezes his shoulder.

He's reluctant to give up Tim's hands in favor of getting himself into position on the bed, so Tim helps him out by making it his own decision instead, retracting his hands himself and folding them in his lap, giving Jon an encouraging nod of his head. Jon nods back at him and moves to lie on his stomach, slowly and gingerly, glancing over his shoulder at Tim as if afraid he could somehow do it wrong. Tim once again finds himself making a concerted effort not to look at him too intensely, not to make him feel scrutinized or judged. 

When Jon stops wriggling and fidgeting into position, he rests his cheek on his folded arms and shoots a look at Tim over his shoulder. "Is this okay?"

Tim shuffles toward him on his knees, sits back on his heels when he's close enough to place a hand at the small of Jon's back. He presses down gently, relishing the sight of Jon's eyes fluttering shut as he breathes a shaky exhale and melts under his touch. "It's perfect," Tim tells him, and smiles at Jon's sigh of relief. "Jon, have you ever gotten a massage?"

"What?" Jon mumbles vaguely before seemingly processing the words. "No, I don't think so. I mean, not like — not a professional one, or anything. I've had —," he cuts himself short, biting his lip bashfully, and finishes in a rush, "I've had people rub my back before, but nothing too involved."

Now it's Tim's turn to bite his lip, though he does it in an effort to stifle a goofy grin at Jon's shyness — nobody but Jon would be so hesitant to discuss the _scandalous_ back rubs he received from his ex — his _one_ ex, Tim knows, because they've had that conversation before. It's adorable, frankly, and Tim is almost overcome with it. He reminds himself for the thousandth time that it won't do to make Jon think he's laughing at him, and that Jon almost certainly wouldn't accept the truth as explanation, that Tim is so stupidly endeared that he physically cannot hold back a smile sometimes. Even if Jon did believe it, telling him that would only make things more awkward, and neither of them want that to happen.

It's a few seconds before Tim remembers to respond. "D'you want me to give you one?" he asks, trying to make the offer sound as casual as possible. "I'm no professional, but it might help you relax."

Jon blinks at him several times, sticking his tongue out between his lips in an expression of concentration and confusion. "I can relax," he says with a decisive determination. "I can do it, you don't have to worry about — I'm sorry, I'm being — I can relax."

"You don't — Jon, I'm not _upset_ with you for being nervous," Tim tells him, narrowing his eyes as if he could discover Jon's secrets just by looking at him with focused intent — it always seems to work when Jon does it to him, so it's worth a shot. "I'm offering because I want to. I want you to have a good time, and I know you like that kind of thing — the deep pressure, and all that — and honestly, even if you didn't need to loosen up a bit... it's foreplay. Just a way to sort of — warm up, you know, get into the swing of it gradually, get used to touching each other. It's a part of the process."

"If you're sure," Jon mutters, casting a dubious glance over his shoulder, "I think I would like that. You don't have to."

Rather than saying anything in response, Tim simply leans forward and begins rubbing circles into the tense muscles of Jon's back. He starts slow and gentle, but Jon still jumps slightly at the touch before relaxing, melting into the bed as if a switch has been flipped. Tim keeps going, working the pads of his fingers deep into the tight muscles of Jon's back, reveling in the fact that he gets to be the one to do this, that it's his privilege to loosen Jon up and make him feel good, that he can pull these frankly obscene moans of pleasure from him with just his hands.

Jon's shoulders are so tense that Tim fears breaking something with how hard he has to push, but Jon doesn't seem to mind one bit. Well, he is more than a little visibly embarrassed by the sounds he's making, but he's unequivocally enjoying what Tim is doing to him, and that's the important part. That's all that matters to Tim.

At some point, he can't say when, Tim starts talking — it comes naturally to him, unthinkingly, and he certainly has plenty of thoughts to voice at the moment. "You're gorgeous, do you know that?" he murmurs low in Jon's ear, leaning over his body close enough to feel the heat from his skin. "Just unfairly beautiful, all the time, but especially right now. I'd have offered you a massage years ago if I'd known it would look like this."

"I would've said no," Jon mumbles halfheartedly.

"Yeah, I know," Tim replies, unfazed, "but seeing your face when I offered would have been almost as good."

"You're a menace," Jon shoots back, too relaxed to put much bite into it.

Tim retaliates by kneading Jon's shoulder blade with a particularly intense pressure, and Jon makes a punched-out sound from deep in his chest, squirming under Tim's hands. "What was that you said, Jon?" Tim teases, repeating the motion.

Shooting an ineffectual glare over his shoulder, Jon huffs and arches into Tim's touch. "Don't get smug," he mutters bitterly. "You have too much knowledge of your own assets, it's a bit infuriating."

"Yeah, yeah," says Tim, his grin coming through loud and clear in his tone. "You won't think it's infuriating when I'm using my _myriad_ assets to fuck your soul right out of your tiny body."

"Tim- _mmm_ ," Jon attempts to scold him for the scandalous language, but that effort is undermined when his voice — already wrecked and rough — breaks off into a moan.

"Oh, fuck," comes Tim's very eloquent answer, hardly more than a breath, and his hands freeze, fingers splayed out warm across Jon's skin. "Please tell me you're going to do that again."

"Do what?" asks Jon, furrowing his brow.

"Say my name like that," Tim murmurs low and rough, bordering on pleading. "Like, as many times as possible, preferably."

It's kind of magical, he thinks, how he can feel Jon's skin heat up beneath his hands in response to the comment, feel his back tense up and watch the whole process of Jon's journey through surprise, confusion, understanding, flattery, and awkward stammering as he fumbles for words. Magical how Jon is clearly so unused to hearing things like that, but he doesn't protest it, doesn't brush it off; magical how he's allowing Tim the gift of seeing him like this.

He doesn't expect Jon to say anything, really, given the state he's in and given that there isn't really much to be said at the moment, so Tim keeps diligently rubbing his back, leaning in close over his body and running a hand through his hair every so often. His hair is soft and long and beautiful, little streaks of grey making it so much sexier — whatever that means for Tim's psyche, he doesn't rightly care when he's looking at Jon. With his face relaxed as if in sleep, his breathing low and slow and deep, his hair splayed out around his head like a halo, Tim is hypnotized, almost doesn't even realize he's moving to kiss him until his lips make contact with Jon's shoulder, soft and chaste.

He jumps at the contact again, just a bit, and Tim presses another kiss to the side of his neck in apology. "Sorry, I should have said something," he murmurs, his breath hot against Jon's skin. "I just couldn't resist. Think I left my body for a moment there."

Turning his head to the left until they were face to face, far closer than expected, Jon clears his throat gently. "Why's that?" he asks, an innocent curiosity laced with heat.

"You know, Jon," Tim says, speaking matter-of-factly, almost lecturing, "if you think it's infuriating how familiar I am with my own painfully good looks and devastating charm, you should try being me and having to watch you being completely ignorant of yours."

"My... painfully good looks and devastating charm?" Jon says skeptically.

"Maybe not in so many words," Tim admits with a guilty tip of his head. "But looks, definitely, and some kind of charm. Just because it's not the same as mine doesn't mean it's not dreadfully appealing. I should think that someone as dedicated to truth and knowledge as you are should start by looking inward."

Jon blinks several times in succession, intently watching Tim's lips for reasons he can't articulate. "You're putting me on," he says quietly. "I'm thankful that you're here, Tim, really, but you don't have to pretend —"

It's an easy thing to press their lips together — almost easier than not doing it, considering how strong a temptation it is and how close their faces already are. Tim closes the small gap with a desperate speed, a fervent force, and kisses Jon hard enough to shut him up for at least a few minutes.

"I'm not. Pretending," he breathes against Jon's lips when he reluctantly pulls away. "God, you're so — you're so irritating, Jon, I could strangle you sometimes, but you're also... probably one of the most attractive people I've ever known. Not just your looks, either, it's everything — the way you carry yourself, the cadence of your voice."

"Tim..." Jon's tone is halfway between warning and abashed, mumbled under his breath as he looks away from Tim's eyes.

"No, Jon, I think you need to hear this," Tim says, suddenly rather firm and insistent. "You're so unbelievably cute, I lose sleep over it sometimes, stay up until the early morning just thinking about you — biting your lip when you're trying to concentrate, tucking your hair behind your ear when it falls in your eyes, frowning when something is confusing you, pulling at your sleeves like you do. The way your eyes go all dark and deep when you're looking really hard at a statement, the way your voice gets so low and hot sometimes... honestly, it's no wonder that Martin is so crazy for you."

Gasping sharply, Jon only narrowly avoids headbutting Tim right in the face with how fast he pushes himself up on his elbows. As it is, he only whips Tim in the cheek with his hair, and Tim flinches backward but doesn't complain.

Jon stares wide-eyed at Tim for a long moment before finally saying, his voice low and breaking down the middle, "Martin is what?"

His chest constricting painfully, Tim flounders with his mouth hanging open, a thousand excuses and apologies dying on his tongue. He can't quite interpret Jon's expression, whether he's upset or just shocked or anything else. "I thought you knew," Tim manages eventually, breathless. "He's so — I just thought you knew."

"Well, I didn't," Jon snaps, setting his jaw and huffing out a frustrated little breath. "Are you — can we just get on with it, please?"

"Are you sure?" Tim asks with a concerned frown. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... if you'd rather not, I'd understand. If I killed the mood."

"You didn't kill the mood," Jon assures him, the upset melting from his face and posture as quickly as it came. "Well, you did, a bit. But I got it back, and — if we can't move on with the proceedings, then I'd at least like to move on to another topic of conversation. I would — I _would_ like to move on with the proceedings, though."

"Sure," Tim smiles, shaking his head fondly at Jon's vocabulary. "Sure. You want me to start preparing you?"

Jon nods, returning a tight smile. "Yeah, that's a good idea. And —," he cuts off, pressing his lips together in a line before continuing, "you're allowed to say... words. I'll try not to be weird about it. I want to hear it."

Tim raises his eyebrows, purses his lips. "Good to know," he murmurs warmly under his breath. "Lie down for me again? Let me take care of you for a bit."

Biting his lip, Jon hesitates for a short moment before turning to lie on his stomach again, sparing another glance over his shoulder at Tim. He shoots him a quick, nervous smile, closing his eyes and letting out a soft breath of mock exasperation when Tim responds with a gaudy wink. Fortunately, Tim thinks better of saying anything cheeky in the moment, choosing instead to focus his efforts on appreciating what he has before him.

"You really are beautiful," he murmurs hotly, almost inaudibly. He settles one large hand on the curve of Jon's thigh, the juncture where it rises into the swell of his ass, and squeezes appreciatively. "I can't believe nobody's ever done this for you, it's... your body is delicious."

"Really, Tim," Jon huffs under his breath, trying to refrain from squirming at the praise. He pushes into Tim's touch just slightly, chasing the warmth and the firmness of his hand, and is rewarded immediately with both of Tim's hands on his ass.

Slowly, gently, Tim spreads his cheeks apart, looking on with a sort of reverence as he reveals more of Jon's skin. His fingertips dig into the flesh of Jon's ass, a thumb teasing at the tight pucker of his hole, just testing, not quite trying to push inside yet. Tim's mouth waters with anticipation of what's to come.

He briefly considers the possibility of eating Jon's ass, of working him open with his tongue and fingers in tandem before fucking him, but in Tim's experience something like that requires a whole conversation, and he really doesn't fancy bringing the _proceedings_ to a total halt again.

Instead, he reaches for the bottle of lube where Jon set it on the nightstand, squirts a few pumps into his open hand and slathers it liberally over his fingers. He keeps Jon's ass spread wide with his other hand and begins to circle a lubed fingertip around the rim of his hole. Jon lets out a quiet moan, choked and bitten off halfway through, and Tim feels and sees his muscles tense up in response to the touch.

"Relax, Jon, you're alright," Tim mutters warmly, rubbing the small of his back in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. "You _are_ alright, yeah?"

"Yeah," Jon grunts, unenthusiastic but equally unwavering. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, mindfully loosening up his body one muscle at a time. "Yeah, it's good, I'm good. Sorry."

"No need for that," Tim half-scolds as he rubs the tip of his index finger lightly over Jon's hole again. "I'm glad you're good, that's all that matters. Tension is sort of a natural part of the process, don't worry about it."

Jon might be planning to respond, but all the air leaves his lungs in one punched-out breath when Tim moves with testing caution to push his finger inside. Tim pauses for a moment, glancing up at Jon's face to ensure that he isn't uncomfortable or in pain, but his face is slack with pleasure, his lips parted and gorgeous, his breaths even and quiet.

Tim slides his finger in to the second knuckle, using tentative motions and continuing to listen closely for any sign of distress from Jon. Hearing none, and relishing the way Jon's muscles flutter around his finger, he ventures to press deeper, probing for Jon's prostate. He wants to make Jon let go a little, to make him really feel everything in the moment and react without overthinking it. When he finally nudges the bundle of nerves with the pad of his finger, Jon keens beautifully, his back bowing slightly and his ass clenching tight around Tim's finger.

"Oh, that's lovely," Tim murmurs, repeating the action before pumping his finger in and out at a leisurely pace. "Just gorgeous. D'you want more?"

"Please," Jon replies through gritted teeth.

He isn't begging, not yet, merely being polite, and perhaps a tad passive aggressive. It's always a good look for him, with his wrinkled brow and square jaw and molten eyes. It's an even better look when Tim gets to watch it break into an expression of pleasure as he breaches Jon's asshole with two of his fingers.

He presses inside in short, slow movements, pulling his fingers out a bit and easing them in a little further, keeping his other hand firm and warm on Jon's lower back to ground him. Jon clenches around him and lets out the most adorable little moans whenever Tim pushes up against his prostate or scissors his fingers to spread him further. He fucks Jon open on his two fingers for a minute, reveling in the hot clutch of his hole and the tiny, reflexive movements of his muscles, until inevitably the quiet becomes too much for him to bear.

"You know," he says matter-of-factly, "you're allowed to talk, too. I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to, but I would love to hear you."

"I'm not... particularly holding anything back," Jon says, sounding almost sheepish. "What do people usually say during something like this?"

Tim blinks at him. "You want me to walk you through dirty talk?"

Groaning, Jon turns his head to bury his face in his arms, but Tim doesn't miss the smile on his face or the way his skin heats up under his hand. His voice is muffled but coherent enough when he responds. "I mean, sort of? I just don't want to be weird or anything. I want this to be good for you, so if there's something I could be doing — or, or not doing — to make it better, then yeah, I want you to tell me."

It's almost involuntarily that Tim begins tracing shapes into Jon's back with his fingertips, soothing and firm, as he continues fucking him on his fingers. "You could tell me how it feels," he suggests with half a shrug, speaking as evenly as he can manage given the circumstances. "Ask for more, or less, or something else. Tell me what you want to do to me, or what you want me to do to you. Or..." he trails off into silence, unsure whether he should say the last bit at all.

"Or what?" Jon asks, ever the prying eye, and Tim can't possibly resist his curiosity.

"You could tell me I'm good," he mumbles half under his breath, nonchalant, as if it isn't the only thing he wants in the world. "I like to hear it, it... gets me going, you know? Gets me really hot when someone tells me I'm doing well, making them feel good and all that."

"I can do that," Jon replies without an ounce of uncertainty or a moment of hesitation. "I can absolutely do that."

"You don't have to," Tim rushes to remind him.

Jon twists his head around to raise an eyebrow at Tim, dry and sardonic. "I really don't mind," he insists. "I'm much better at doling out praise than I am at receiving it. And I do think quite highly of you in many regards, so it's no imposition at all for me to voice those thoughts, if that's what you'd like."

Tim closes his eyes and blows out a long, low breath through his teeth, shaking his head. "It's not fair," he grumbles, "that you can still talk like that with my fingers in your ass, and that it's still so fucking cute."

"My apologies," Jon shoots back with a small smile. "By all means, carry on. I'll try to be less... cute."

"Don't you dare," Tim says in a deep warning tone, teasing the tip of his ring finger at the rim of Jon's entrance. "You just keep on being yourself, and I'll keep being myself, and we'll both have a lot of fun."

"Yes, I'm having a blast," Jon snarks, cutting off with a breathless moan and dropping his head down to press his forehead into the sheets.

Bringing his free hand down to stroke along Jon's flank, Tim beams with pride as he continues to work him open. Jon isn't really the more talkative of the two of them, but that's only because Tim is serious competition in that area; rendering Jon speechless is still quite an accomplishment.

Also an accomplishment is the way Jon lifts his hips off the bed to press back against Tim's fingers, to coax him in deeper. Tim brings his hand to rest on Jon's hip and fucks his fingers relentlessly inside, relishing the stretch of the muscle around him and the wanton little noises that escape Jon, soft whimpers and low moans that go straight to Tim's core.

"God, you're so hot," Tim mumbles somewhat redundantly. "You look so fucking gorgeous all spread out on my fingers."

"Fuck," comes Jon's reply, low and breathless. "Give me more, Tim, fuck, please. Feels so good, so full, I can't wait for you to fuck me."

"You think you're ready? I can give it to you whenever you want, love." Tim is skeptical, but he trusts Jon's judgment on the matter. He's certainly acquainted with the experience enough to know that sometimes the stretch of being fucked open is a rather pleasant kind of burn.

Jon moans high in his throat and tightens around Tim's fingers. "Fuck. Yes, yes, give it to me. Fuck me."

Squeezing Jon's hip, Tim pulls his fingers out gingerly, taking a moment to rub over and around Jon's hole, slick and loose from his efforts. He leans across the bed to grab the dildo, working it into the ring of the harness at last and attaching the ring with a practiced ease, and then slathers lube all along the shaft before finally placing the head of it at Jon's entrance. It's clearly going to be a tight fit, and Tim sighs in awe at the sight of the thick, blunt cockhead pressed against Jon's hole.

He pushes forward just a bit, not enough to breach the tight heat of him, but just enough to apply a dull pressure. Jon whines, pressing back against him and reaching back to blanket Tim's hand on his hip with his own.

"Tim, please," he moans low in his throat. "Fuck me, fill me, I need it."

Tim doesn't waste too much time teasing, unable to resist Jon's hoarse begging. He spreads Jon's cheeks and dips his thumb shallowly inside, hooking it on the rim of Jon's hole and tugging gently, holding him open. He huffs out a soft breath and finally pushes in, watching with reverence as the cock disappears inside of Jon bit by bit. The stretch of Jon's hole around the thick cock is something of a wonder, and Tim can't help a wavering exhale when he's fully seated inside. Jon echoes the sound, punctuating it with a quiet grunt.

"You look so good like this," Tim murmurs, squeezing Jon's hip affectionately. "You were just made for this, weren't you? You take it so well."

Jon exhales through his nose, squirming and shifting to grind down against the sheets. "God, Tim, it's so much."

Tim freezes — not that he had been moving before, but now he makes a point to stay still — and rubs soothing circles into the small of his back. "Too much? Do you need me to stop? Or wait? Or do something different?"

"No, no, it's good," Jon mumbles quickly, fervently. "It's perfect, you're so good. I'm — mm," he cuts himself off with a breathy groan and then lifts his hips up from the bed, pushing back against Tim's pelvis and moaning openly. "I'm — it's weird. Not, not _weird,_ I mean. It's just rare that I get like this — this turned on. Odd sensation, being so hard it nearly hurts."

Using his grip on Jon's hips to aid in holding him up, Tim smiles warmly, gives him the fondest look he could muster despite the fact that Jon can't see his face. "Is that all?" he asks softly. "You need me to help you out, stroke your cock for you?"

A nod of Jon's head, his cheek pressed into the sheets, is all the response Tim needs. He wraps his arm around Jon's waist, taking his cock in hand and stroking up and down the shaft a few times. Jon bucks into his touch, then back again.

"Yeah, that's good," he says, shifting his hips in little circles to alternately fuck himself back on the length of the cock and thrust forward into Tim's hand. "Will you move? Fuck me, I mean. Please."

"Sure thing." Tim pulls out a bit before pushing back inside, slow and deliberate movements making Jon's walls clench around him. He works his way up to the full length, picking up speed at the same time, until he's set a pace, pulling out until only the tip remains inside and then fucking back in with sharp, decisive thrusts.

As the cockhead brushes up against Jon's prostate, he arches his back and keens, barely having time to catch his breath before Tim hits the same spot again, angling his thrusts perfectly. He watches with satisfaction as Jon claws at the sheets, panting and whining.

"God, Tim," Jon moans, "that feels so good, you're so good."

His voice is wrecked, hoarse and reedy, and the sound of it goes straight to Tim's dick. He slides inside Jon's tight hole again all the way to the root, then takes a moment to grind his hips against Jon's ass, pressing the base of the toy against his own cock.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. Then, louder, "You're doing so well, Jon, you're amazing. I just want to make you feel good, want to take you to pieces, you're so hot like this."

Jon groans, clutching tighter at the sheets. "You're so good to me," he slurs vaguely. "Yeah, just like that, that's lovely, you're lovely. Fuck me, fuck me harder, please."

Well. Tim is nothing if not a generous lover, so he obliges, pulling out and snapping his hips forward again, properly pounding into Jon's eager hole. He's rewarded with a long, low moan and a rambling string of praise spilling from Jon's mouth like water from a fountain.

"Fuck, Tim, you fuck me so well, you make me feel so good," he says. "You're wonderful, filling me up and fucking me just how I need it. So good to me, such a sweet, lovely thing."

The last word is nearly cut off by a sharp inhale and another breathy moan. Tim smiles at that, begins petting Jon's hip affectionately.

"Are you close?" he asks, leaning forward to stroke Jon's hair. "You want me to make you come?"

Jon nods, leaning his head into Tim's touch and rubbing against his hand. "Yeah, yeah," he pants, his voice hoarse and distant. "Touch me, Tim, please, you do it so well, give me more. I want all of you, you're so — so good, so wonderful for me."

Reaching around Jon's waist again to wrap his deft fingers around Jon's cock, Tim strokes his cock with a firm grip from the base to the head. Precome beads up at the tip and Tim uses the pad of his thumb to swipe at it, using it to lubricate the skin a bit. Jon whines, his hips moving in little circles to fuck into Tim's fist and push himself back on the cock until the sensation overwhelms him and he falters in his rhythm.

"Tim, Tim, Tim — fuck, that feels so good, it's so —" Jon cuts himself off before finishing his thought, his voice breaking into a high, breathy moan as he crests his peak of pleasure. He spills over Tim's fingers with a stuttering jerk of his hips, while Tim fucks him through it and wrings each pulse of come from him with long, firm strokes of his hand.

"Oh, good, that's lovely," Tim breathes hotly, pressing his hips in close to Jon's ass, grinding the base of the toy against himself. He gasps aloud at the sensation, the delicious pressure, and then releases a long sigh. "Fuck, Jon, you're so hot. So fucking hot."

Jon can only nod his head, sweaty cheek pressed into the sheets, and whimper as Tim's hold on his cock becomes painfully overstimulating. Tim removes his hand, brings it up without a second thought and sucks his index finger into his mouth, moaning wantonly at the taste and then licking the remainder of Jon's seed from his other fingers. His other hand travels up and down Jon's back, brushing over his hip, his shoulder, petting his hair.

"Thank you," Jon pants, his shoulders heaving. "Can you — will you take it out now?"

"Yeah, of course," Tim assures him gently. "It'll feel weird, but it shouldn't hurt, alright? I'll go slow."

He places his hands firmly on Jon's hips and begins to pull out, his gaze fixed on the cock appearing inch by inch. It looks even bigger now, tugging against Jon's rim; every second Tim is sure there can't be more, and yet it keeps coming. When the head finally slips free of Jon's abused hole, Tim wastes no time removing the harness and tossing it aside.

"All good?" he asks, leaning down to speak softly in Jon's ear. "Need anything?"

"Yeah," Jon replies, hardly audible even in such close proximity. "God, I feel... that was amazing. Let me — can I — you haven't come yet."

"I'm fine," Tim replies quickly, even as Jon is already pushing himself up onto his elbows. "You don't have to do anything, don't worry about it."

"But I want to," insists Jon, drawing his brows together and looking at Tim with wide, earnest eyes. "Really, I mean, not just because I'm thankful or because I think I owe you — though I am, and I do. But I also want to. I'm quite good with my mouth, I've heard, if you'd like to try that."

Tim blinks at him, breath caught in his throat, and has to take several moments to process the offer before he can even think about responding. He looks into Jon's eyes, dark and deep and hypnotic, and sees no reservations or hesitation. "Yeah," he croaks after a time, "I'd like that very much."

"Perfect," Jon murmurs with a warm smile. "D'you want to lie down, or would you prefer another position — riding my face, perhaps, or I could get on my knees and —"

"Jesus fucking Christ," Tim mutters breathlessly, burying his burning face in his hands. "You can't just say things like that, Jon, I will die. I'll actually expire before your very eyes."

"Well, we certainly don't want that," Jon replies matter-of-factly.

There's something inscrutable in his tone, and Tim has to peak out between his fingers to try to decipher his expression, which can only be described as a shit-eating grin. Tim loves the boldness, can't decide if he's more impressed or proud or just turned on by Jon's attitude. His pulse is pounding at this point, throbbing in his chest and his throat and between his legs.

It takes Tim a long few seconds to realize that Jon is still waiting for an answer to his question, that he was sincerely asking and not just trying to murder Tim with his words. Tim nods decisively and maneuvers himself up the length of the bed to lie back against the pillows, utterly confident in the fact that if he were to try speaking at the moment, it would come out as little more than a squeaky breath.

Fortunately, Jon gets the message well enough, pushes up onto his knees and scoots up between Tim's legs. placing his hands on Tim's thighs and squeezing them gently, a move that is at once comforting and unbelievably sexy. Tim spreads his legs further and Jon takes the invitation, goes down onto his forearms and leans his cheek against Tim's inner thigh, skin on hot skin, eyes wide and peering up at Tim's face.

"May I?" he asks, his warm breath ghosting across Tim's skin and making him shudder. "You look... delicious."

Tim tries, he really tries to say "Yes, Jon, please do, I would greatly appreciate it," but it doesn't come out quite so eloquent. Jon is beaming up at him from between his legs, his lips all full and soft and wet, and Tim only gets as far as "Yuh," before he chokes on his spit and has to take a moment to clear his throat and nod his head. Jon doesn't require anything else from him, just digs his fingertips into the flesh of Tim's thighs and dips low to press a series of soft kisses along Tim's hips and stomach.

Before long, Tim's hand finds its way to Jon's hair, absently petting the back of his head as he works over Tim's skin with his mouth. Jon's taking his time getting to the main event, savoring every inch of Tim's skin, nipping gently and laving his tongue over the sore spots in his wake. Tim doesn't want to be impatient or demanding, but he can't help bucking his hips and letting out a soft whimper when Jon's _this_ close to sucking him off.

"Christ, boss, you could topple governments with that mouth," he says after a time, all breathy and desperate like he always pretends not to be.

Jon looks up at him, raises an eyebrow in that dry, sardonic way he does, and Tim thinks for a moment that he could happily die here, with this view. He's just about to say something aloud to that effect when Jon gives him a little smirk and finally leans in to wrap his lips around Tim's dick. Once that's happening, Tim can hardly even dream of speaking in coherent sentences. Instead, what he says is a very witty "Fuck," followed by a whining moan.

He cards his fingers through Jon's hair, taking care not to tug too hard, not to clench his fists and pull Jon's scalp clean off. Jon swirls his tongue around the head of Tim's cock, looking up at him through those thick lashes. He pulls off and licks his lips all slow and sweet, then closes his eyes and dips down low, drags the flat of his tongue up between his folds from his hole to his cock. Tim cries out at that, thrusts up toward the wet heat of Jon's mouth and grinds against his tongue for a moment.

Only a moment, because then Jon thinks better of allowing that, moves his hands to Tim's hips and holds him down as he continues working him over with his tongue. Tim is more than okay with this development, so much so that it knocks the wind out of him with the sheer force of how much it turns him on. He makes a choked little noise, a groan that gets caught in his throat and comes out mangled and somewhat pathetic. Jon smiles at that, and Tim can feel his lips quirking up against his sensitive skin just as easily as he can see the mischievous glint in Jon's eyes and the quirk of his brow.

He almost hates to admit it, but Tim has to put in a rousing vote of support for Jon's mouth skills, along with whomever else has had the privilege of being on the receiving end of oral from Jonathan Sims. His tongue is wicked and soft, hot and brilliant, and he knows how to use it, as well as his plush lips and his clever teeth. He draws the most obscene sounds from Tim as he licks and sucks and nips and bites, and he looks damn proud of himself for it.

It's not long before Tim is teetering on the edge — after how turned on he's been all night, he's surprised he didn't come the second Jon touched him, and everything since that moment has only amplified the feeling. Jon presses his tongue firm against Tim's cock, licks a line up to the tip before taking it in his mouth and sucking _hard,_ and Tim can't hold out any longer. He comes with a shout, fingers tightening in Jon's hair and hips bucking up as best they can to savor the pressure and the lovely heat of Jon's mouth as he rides out the wave of his orgasm.

Jon keeps sucking him through it, his tongue flexing along and around Tim's cock while Tim shakes apart for him. He wraps his hands around Tim's thighs, tightening on either side of his head, and squeezes the muscular flesh, hums appreciatively around Tim's cock, sending delicious vibrations through every nerve in his body.

When the pleasure of the sensation tilts into overstimulation, Tim whines, tugs a little harder at Jon's hair until he gets the message and pulls away. He sits back on his heels, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and gives Tim a lopsided grin that seems the antithesis of Jon's general attitude toward — well, everything.

"Satisfied?" he asks, all smug and playful and _God,_ Tim can't _stand_ it.

"Yeah, I'm bloody well satisfied," he says. "Did not expect that from you."

"You didn't expect me to satisfy you?" Jon raises a hand to his chest and drops his jaw in mock scandal. "I'm hurt."

Tim shakes his head, pushes up on one hand to smack Jon gently on the shoulder. "Shut up, you know what I mean," he laughs. "Just didn't expect you to be so... knowledgeable, _confident_ about it. Especially after..."

Jon smiles even wider, interjects: "Especially after you _fucked my soul right out of my tiny body?"_

"Yeah," Tim mutters with another huff of laughter. "Yeah, that."

"Well, I suppose that'll teach you to make assumptions, won't it?"

"Mhm," Tim agrees without hesitation. "Teach me that making assumptions gets me some seriously good head. You got anything else you need to prove?"

Now it's Jon's turn to smack Tim's arm, rather hard but not hard enough to really hurt. Before Tim can even act offended, Jon lunges forward and captures him in a kiss, deep and filthy and hot. Tim kisses him back without pause, sucking Jon's tongue into his mouth gratefully, hungrily, his moans swallowed up by their lips pressed together hard enough to bruise.

On a sudden impulse, Tim grips Jon by both his shoulders and pins him to the bed, determined to kiss him silly as some sort of retaliation. Jon wraps his arms around Tim's waist, pulling him in close, and Tim breaks away from the kiss to gaze down at him with wide eyes.

"Tell me you're not going to kick me out," he pleads, the enormity of his desperation catching both of them off guard. "I won't try anything, I just — fuck, I just want to hold you."

"I'm not going to kick you out," Jon replies, reciting the phrase almost singsong. "You do need to get off of me, though. I don't fancy suffocating in my sleep."

"Right, right." Tim smiles and nods, tries to hide his heavy sigh of relief and the tension seeping out of his shoulders as he rolls over to lie on his side. He rests his cheek on his hand and just drinks in the sight of Jon for a long moment, a dazed smile spreading slowly on his face, before he finally speaks again. "I'm... a very, very lucky man."

Jon mirrors his movement, rolls to the side and looks up at Tim with fond, amused exasperation writ all over his face. "You are," he agrees, then pauses. Scooches a little bit closer, and closer still, until they're almost nose to nose, and settles his hand gently over Tim's cheek. "Don't push it."


End file.
